


Show Off

by Arsenic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-14
Updated: 2007-01-14
Packaged: 2020-11-07 14:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Viktor always asks for the same birthday present.





	Show Off

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Pornish Exhibitionist Challenge. PWP.

Viktor said, "Do something for me?"

Ron smiled. "It's your birthday, mate. Anything."

In truth, there weren't many days when Ron felt up to refusing Viktor requests. And there were almost no days when Viktor asked for much. So it was puzzling and a bit pleasing to watch his cheeks burn slightly with color, to observe him looking at Ron without saying anything--as though Ron might be able to puzzle out what he wanted.

Ron wasn't the Legilimencer in his set.

He said, "Anything," again, softer, more suggestively.

Viktor shook his head. "I'll show you, yes?"

Ron had trusted Viktor with bigger things than birthday surprises that weren't even technically for Ron, so he shrugged. "Lead the way."

Viktor lead them to a nice restaurant, the type that Ron had only recently begun to be able to afford for himself. Ironically, it was only then that Ron had granted Viktor the right to pay for both of them when he tried. At first Viktor had rolled his eyes at Ron's insistence at splitting their bills, had said, "You've hardly begun at the Department. Let me just--"

But Ron had always glared him into submission and Viktor had learned to take the hint, and Ron was pretty sure that for all his early just-barely-adult worship of Viktor, it was the fact that Viktor really did listen to Ron when he wanted to make a point that had pushed Ron over into loving the other man.

Ron said, "Tonight's my treat. Happy birthday."

Viktor didn't argue. He was skittish and laughed at the wrong places. Back before his English had improved, Ron would have taken that as par for the course and simply kept trying. Viktor's English had long since cemented itself into a softly-accented fluency, though, and he understand even more than he could say.

When they had finished eating, Ron paid the bill quickly and got up to leave, determined to figure out what was going on with Viktor. As he stepped toward the front door, Viktor said, "No, through the back."

"The back?"

"I said I would show you."

Ron blinked slowly, then turned and walked toward the restaurant's back exit, the one that opened up into an alleyway. Ron followed Viktor, even as he walked much more quickly than he generally did. Ron said, "Viktor," intending to say something else. He would have, too--not that he knew what it would have been--except that Viktor chose to respond by pulling him between two buildings, pressing him up to the side of one and covering Ron's mouth with his.

Ron brought his hand up to the back of Viktor's neck, responded with a fervor of his own and thought, _huh, anything._

Viktor pulled his mouth from Ron's, just far enough away to say, "I want--"

Ron said, "Just--"

But then Viktor's mouth was back on his, Viktor's teeth digging lightly into Ron's lower lip. One of Viktor's hands found the buttons on Ron's trousers, the other hand fumbled with his own pants. Ron's fingers dug tightly into the skin on the back of Viktor's neck, his other palm pressing almost painfully into the brick of the building at his back.

Viktor surged into him then, his cock bare and hot and _perfect_ against Ron's. Ron wasn't even sure when he'd had time to become aroused, but he was, nearly unto pain. It was cold in the alley and the brick was rough even through the material of his shirt and this was crazy, insane, Viktor had a career to consider and Ron didn't care.

What he cared about was the solidity of Viktor's chest against his, the ungentle slide of Viktor's tongue across his, the tight heat of Viktor's palm closing around their cocks, increasing the friction of each stroke.

Ron brought the hand that was at Viktor's neck up until it was in his hair. Ron tangled his fingers amidst the strands and squeezed, trying to hold on, hold out. Viktor let go of his mouth long enough to gasp a, "Please," and Ron came seconds before he felt Viktor's orgasm in the reflexive tightening of his muscles.

Ron's head drooped, coming to rest on Viktor's shoulder. There were fine tremors underneath his skin and now both hands were resting on either side of Ron, planted on the wall, helping to hold the two of them upright. Ron murmured, "Bloody hell."

Viktor made a sound that more than passed for agreement.

Ron said, "Happy birthday."

*

They only ever _ever_ risked being seen once a year--on Viktor's birthday. Ron arranged it from then on out: the time and the place always a surprise. It went on without question or comment or even much fanfare until the fifth year, when Viktor turned thirty, and Ron thought that called for something special.

*

There had been a series of points when Ron and Viktor had met up after Ron's fourth year, particularly when Viktor had become one of the only foreign members in the Order. But it wasn't until Ron had attended a Cannons game against Bulgaria and Viktor had somehow _noticed_\--later Viktor would say, "I notice you," and Ron would understand what it meant, even if he still couldn't quite believe it--that they had begun dating.

The game had been at the Cannons's pitch. Being assistant head of Magical Games and Sports, it hadn't been hard for Ron to get access to the pitch, even on a Wednesday night in the late fall--when there was absolutely no reason for him to be there.

Ron side-along Apparated the two of them to the pitch. Viktor blinked in the second after they materialized and Ron said, "Happy birthday."

Viktor said, "Ron."

Ron couldn't hear what he was thinking, so he said, "I know it's cold."

Viktor touched his hand to his wand and it wasn't so cold after all. He said, "Ron," and then he kissed him and they were in the middle of the pitch, not on the bleachers where Ron had maybe thought they would be when he had come up with the idea.

Viktor's hands were inside Ron's shirt almost immediately, despite the fact that he had three layers to go through--Viktor was talented like that. Ron had asked him once, "How do you--"

Viktor had said, "Seeker's trick," but when Ron had tried to argue that getting in someone's pants had nothing to do with professional seeking, Viktor had taken his mind off the conversation altogether with a show of his skills.

Now Viktor's hands were on Ron's stomach, the thumbs inching up toward his nipples. Ron said, "Fuck," and leaned into the hands, knowing, without question, that Viktor would keep him upright until he didn't want to be upright anymore.

From the moment their mouths touched Ron found it hard to believe he'd ever been cold, not just this night, but _ever_. He, unlike Viktor, had to scrabble at buttons and cloth and even get tangled in robes, but he managed to slide his hands over Viktor's hips, around to his arse, and pull him in further.

Normally these not-quite-public birthday excursions were quick and frantic and based on rubbing or sucking each other off, but Viktor's hands were still on his stomach, so Ron thought that maybe tonight was different.

Viktor was speaking even as they were kissing, things in Bulgarian, and Ron had learned to recognize certain words over the years, words like, "yes," and "perfect," and "love," so he knew enough to know when Viktor was satisfied, when Viktor was happy.

One of Viktor's hands dropped to undo Ron's pants and then all of Viktor was on his knees, his tongue making a quick journey over Ron's cock, root to tip. Ron managed to stay on his feet but only because of Viktor's hands at his hips, his own hands now embedded in Viktor's hair.

Viktor said, "Don't come," and normally Ron would have made a noise of protest but it was Viktor's birthday and even had it not been, he was curious as to what Viktor wanted.

So he held on as tightly as his fingers could manage to the loose strands of hair, and finally, finally Viktor tugged him down, onto his knees, the two of them face to face. Viktor said, "Every quidditch player I've ever known has a fantasy about taking or being taken on a broom."

"Complicated," Ron panted.

"Likely impossible, at least without death or injury," Viktor agreed.

"Want to take me here? Closest thing, and all that."

"I always wanted to be taken."

Ron should have known. Viktor wasn't, per se, a bottom, but he liked doing it on occasions that he marked as special--their first anniversary, the day of Ron's most recent promotion, when Bulgaria won the World Cup.

Ron pushed Viktor back until he was sitting on the ground, his knees folded in front of him, and then further, to where he was lying down. The grass of the pitch was soft, and decently warm--given Viktor's charm--and the two of them had had sex in less comfortable places, all things told.

Impatient, Ron spelled Viktor's trousers from him. He took hold of Viktor's knees and draped them over his shoulders, pulling Viktor's arse up the slight incline of Ron's thighs. Ron managed, somehow, to find his wand--still in his pocket, where he'd left it--and come up with a lubrication charm. His Latin tended to deteriorate when he was turned on enough to make breathing a challenging endeavor.

He leaned over slightly and drove into Viktor in one particularly determined thrust, putting his weight behind the slide over Viktor's prostate. Viktor said, "Ron," in a very demanding tone, but Ron just laughed. Viktor was always demanding when at his most needy.

Ron brought his chest further to Viktor's, his hands encircling Viktor's calves, pressing them nearly to Viktor's ears. He had learned early on of--and never ceased to hold a certain amount of awe in regards to--Viktor's inordinate flexibility. Ron licked a small, neat path from the hollow of Viktor's throat to the tip of his chin, running alongside the Adam's apple in the spot that often made Viktor say things that didn't make any sense, not even if one understood Bulgarian.

Ron knew, he had tried a translation spell once.

Viktor's hands were now pressed wholly to Ron's chest, the calluses from holding a broom rubbing against Ron's nipples, and Ron sped up his thrusts, moving himself into Viktor's palms, into Viktor.

He let go of Viktor's calves so that he could lower himself even further, trapping Viktor's cock so tightly between the two of them that the friction of their movements alone would bring him off if Ron could just hold on, just a bit longer, just a tiny bit longer.

Viktor came with a bitten-off scream, his lips clamped tightly together, his body arching beneath Ron and the sight was too much, too much for Ron to hold out against, so he didn’t, letting go, falling onto Viktor, who was in no shape to catch him, except that--by the very nature of their positions--he did.

Ron asked, "Close to the fantasy?"

Viktor, who sometimes wholly forgot English at pertinent moments of pleasure said something in Bulgarian.

Ron laughed. "Come again, love. This time in a language I know."

It took a moment, but Viktor managed, "Better."

*

Ron and Viktor shared a modest home on the outskirts of Bulgaria's single wizarding town. Although there had, from time to time, been rumors about the two of them, they each kept up a pretty decent string of "girlfriends," enough that when the rumors were brought up, people generally laughed them off.

"Lifelong bachelors," the men would say.

"Waiting for the right girl," the women would say.

Back in that home, sitting in the kitchen with cups of hot cocoa, Ron said, "Look, not that I mind the tradition, not that I don't really enjoy the tradition, but it's not like you, much."

"Sex?" Viktor asked, taking a sip.

Ron threw a tea towel at him. Viktor, who regularly avoided professionally thrown bludgers, didn’t even duck. "The public part. You don't even like when the respectable papers interview you, let alone all that cack you get on the side. If you could have the Quidditch without the crowds, you would."

"Yes," Viktor said.

"Then what--"

"It's a fantasy."

"A fantasy."

"I like the fantasy of showing you off."

Ron's hand paused with the cup halfway to his lips. He was the second-to-last Weasley, Harry Potter's best friend, the assistant head to a department. He was, in some ways, the afterthought.

"Ron?" Viktor asked.

"Give me a moment."

"I would," Viktor told him, "if I thought--"

"You fantasize about showing _me_ off?"

Viktor shrugged. "You don't?"

"You're Viktor Krum," Ron pointed out. It would have sounded reasonable if he hadn't felt so unbalanced. Instead, it was somewhat high pitched.

"You're Ron Weasley," Viktor said.

Ron said, "Your fantasy."

Viktor smiled. "Among other things."

Ron managed to get the cup the rest of the way to his mouth and take a sip. The cocoa was warm and sweet and perfect.


End file.
